Sometimes I come home from work after dark and strip lights in my kitchen will not turn on straight away, but instead flash abortively, and I stand in the hallway turning the switch on and off as my black cat walks across the linoleum floor, and is visible only in these flashes, a few strides further at each gasp of the light that will not work. The word scallops – which reminds me of scalps – which in turn makes me think of razor-blade being taken to the softly furred (why furred?) stomach of a female Neptune. I think it should behave like the jeweller’s name printed in high-gloss on the very white ring box as it is turned in the hand under the light or like the shape drawn in the condensation on a bus window early in the morning but late enough for several other people to have come and gone and fogged the shape with their breathing or an extremely recent snowfall that contains minuscule claw-prints and a single pair of boot-prints that have no obvious beginning at a doorway in the manner you would expect, or like scallops – and be treated accordingly.
In this new series, we invited poets to write their own ‘poetry manifesto’
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